I dreamed that Sergei Yatzenko had returned to life, motorbiking on country roads he knew like his Lyudmila’s face.
The young men bound to the trees wriggled and screamed. Sergei stopped. Their hammer was lying on the ground. He picked it up, testing its weight in the hand that had spent years building walls, fixing cars, and weaving baskets. The young men gulped, swore, and pissed inside their jeans.
Sergei coughed through his cancer-corrupted throat. He got back onto his bike and rode off, leaving his killers. He was visiting his grandson and did not want their blood on his hands.